


One Place That Matters

by JB Harris (LizAna)



Series: The Janto Files [18]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Anger, Angst, Confrontations, Conversations that should have happened, Episode: s01e12 Captain Jack Harkness, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is kind of a mess in this one, M/M, What Happened After, janto, mentions of Original Captain Jack Harkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 16:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15609867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizAna/pseuds/JB%20Harris
Summary: Picks up directly at the end of the Captain Jack Harkness episode. Jack reviews the CCTV footage of what happened while he was in 1941 and isn't impressed. A confrontation is inevitable. Then angst happens. Sorry, I think Jack's a bit of a mess in this fic...





	One Place That Matters

Jack straightened from where he’d been examining the rift manipulator, trying to figure out exactly what Owen had done when he’d opened the space-time anomaly and what ramifications they were likely to face in the coming days or weeks. Tosh had said she would compile some readings and predictions for him, but he’d told her to leave it until tomorrow. As far as he was concerned, she’d already gone above and beyond duty today, what with their eventful trip back to 1941. He’d told them all to go home, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. None of them had listened, of course.

He shifted around the base of the water tower, gaze landing on Ianto who sat at Gwen’s workstation, brow creased as he concentrated on whatever was on the screen in front of him. Ianto looked more unravelled than Jack could remember seeing him since that night with Lisa. With his hair mussed, tie tugged loose, and waistcoat gaping open, it was clear the last few hours had taken their toll on the usually unflappable Ianto Jones. Since he’d gotten back, he’d wanted to pull Ianto aside to make sure he was okay almost as much as he wanted to avoid him. Right now, avoidance was definitely winning out.

Tosh was at her station, probably already starting on her report even though he’d told her not to do it now, while Gwen was helping Owen patch up his shoulder from where Ianto had shot him.

Hell. He couldn’t believe Ianto had really shot Owen. Actually, he _could_ and his damned emotions were so mixed over it all, he didn’t know what to feel. He was immensely proud of the lengths Ianto had been willing to go to in order to follow his standing orders that the rift was never to be opened—of course a lot of that probably came back to Canary Wharf. Ianto had firsthand experience of how badly these things could go wrong. However, Jack was also desperately relieved that he and Tosh had made it back here within a few hours. Quite frankly, the idea of living through the second half of the 20 th century yet again had left him feeling sick.

And then there was the little voice in the back of his head, the damned insistent weakness that asked if Ianto had been so adamant about not opening the rift, hadn’t Ianto _wanted_ him to come back? It was stupid. There was nothing personal to it. Ianto almost always put Torchwood first, despite whatever his feelings might be. And he and Ianto weren’t like that. Just a shag here and there when they were both in the mood… which just so happened to be all the time lately, whenever they were alone. Just left-over takeaway meals shared on the couch and relaxing chats about nothing, laughing over things he could never recall later because they were silly and inconsequential. Nights spent tangled together under warm blankets because Ianto was either too tired to drive home post-late-night-work-and-shag, or him in Ianto’s bed at his flat because of the (increasingly) rare time he actually fell into a deep sleep, pressed up against each other in soothing darkness.

Just a casual shag. Fun and easy. No strings and no complication. It was what they’d originally agreed to. It was what Ianto wanted. It was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

Back in 1941, Captain Harkness had asked him if there was anyone waiting for him and he’d automatically said no, there wasn’t. Because there hadn’t been for so long, he’d never needed to think otherwise. He’d deliberately made it that way. He’d purposefully and carefully been keeping Ianto in a neat little category of a friend and lover, but nothing more. Except after Captain Harkness had walked away to be with his girl, a hard lump had lodged in Jack’s guts. It’d taken him a few minutes to recognise what it was—a curious mix of grief, loneliness, and a desperate longing to see Ianto. A heavy ache at the realisation that if he didn’t get back, he couldn’t see Ianto for another sixty-eight years.

At some point, Ianto had become so much more to him than he’d let himself see. Except he didn’t know what he should do about it, especially if Ianto still didn’t see him as anything more than a convenient body. Probably the best thing to do was end things with him. He couldn’t keep doing this, not if he was starting to feel—

“I knew we did the right thing, opening the rift,” Owen announced into the silence, abruptly pulling him out of his thoughts.

Ianto cut Owen a brief frown before looking back at the screen. “Still no sign of Bilis.”

“World didn’t end after all, did it? Good job you’re a crap shot.” Owen’s glower was laced with a grimace of pain as he tended his own wound.

“I was aiming for your shoulder,” Ianto told him heatedly, now settling the full weight of his glare on the doctor.

“It was wartime, but it was beautiful,” Tosh interjected, clearly trying to diffuse the situation, but Owen and Ianto continued glaring at each other across the short space. Jack stepped forward, gaining their attention.

“There were angels dancing at the Ritz,” he said as he walked past them, voice sharper than he’d intended. But everything was colliding inside him and he didn’t know what to do with any of it—meeting his namesake, the utter tragedy of the man’s final hours, living a lie the man could never escape from because being gay in the 1940s was like living a death sentence—he should know, one of his countless deaths, he’d been killed for _engaging in homosexual behaviour including buggery_. The memory made him angrier now than it had at the time, but he knew it was more directed himself, for the fate he’d left the real Captain Jack Harkness to. For not being able to change a damn thing. For taking the name of an honourable man and never considering he might be tarnishing a good man’s legacy. For realising too late that Ianto had become—

He ruthlessly shut down the line of thought. He couldn’t deal with that right now, not on top of everything else.

“Jack!” Owen called after him as he reached his office.

“Let me,” Tosh said and then he could hear her soft footfalls coming behind him as he reached for the brandy decanter. Disappointment warred with relief that it hadn’t been Ianto.

He poured her a glass and she toasted the real Captain Jack, telling him he would have been proud. Jack wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that to Tosh, couldn’t bear to lower himself in her eyes anymore than he already had in the last few hours.

After a few minutes, Tosh returned to her workstation when it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for any further conversation. As soon as she sat down, she sent Ianto a surreptitious look and started typing. A moment later, Ianto cut her a quick glance, then seemed to think about something before swiftly typing himself. Jack shifted over to his own computer and brought up internal IM. Sure enough, Tosh and Ianto were both active, though he couldn’t see their conversation. The thought slipped aside as his gaze caught the CCTV archives icon and before he’d even given it a second consideration, he clicked on it to bring up the footage of the last few hours.

He watched on fast play as the team figured out what had happened to him and Tosh, then the quick deterioration as Gwen left to investigate, while Owen became increasingly erratic and Ianto tried to keep the situation in hand, even though it was clear he was struggling emotionally himself.

As he saw Owen finally go and get the rift blue prints out of the secure archives, then he and Ianto came to blows over it, the unfocused fragments of anger he’d been feeling coalesced into a single razor-sharp point. When Owen viciously kicked Ianto while he was already on the ground, both hands clamped onto the edge of his desk hard enough to make his knuckles ache. No wonder Ianto had gone and got the gun. And then the next exchange of words scraped over Jack like sandpaper.

“ _Don’t compare yourself with me, you’re just the tea boy_.”

“ _I’m much more than that. Jack needs me_.”

“ _In your dreams, Ianto. In your sad wet dreams when you're his part-time shag, maybe_.”

Jack went cold all over, and when Ianto shot Owen, he barely blinked. The shock on Ianto’s face, however, as if he couldn’t believe he’d actually done it, finally sent Jack to his feet. He strode over and yanked open his office door, startling Tosh, Owen and Gwen.

“Where’s Ianto?” His voice came out cold, the anger in him brimming in every word. The three exchanged wary looks.

“I don’t know. He just got up and left all of a sudden.” There was a slight touch of colour on Tosh’s cheeks, and he suddenly had a bad feeling about the IM conversation the two of them had been having.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” Gwen ventured, though there was a note of hesitation in her voice, as if she wasn’t sure if she should be asking.

He didn’t answer her, but strode past them, going down the steps and around the water tower, heading for the kitchenette. He didn’t need to wonder anymore what Ianto felt about the two of them, it had been written all over his face when Owen had taunted him. It had bled through in every word when Ianto had uttered _Jack needs me_. Relief warred with dread, because he didn’t know what the hell this meant for the two of them. Only that it was _something_ … maybe something important.

Sure enough, Ianto was standing in front of the coffee machine. He wasn’t doing anything, however. He had both hands braced against the edge of the bench with his head hung low, every inch of him looking defeated.

“Ianto.”

The younger man startled and straightened, but didn’t turn around. Instead he hastily grabbed the cannister of coffee beans.

“I’ll have a tray ready in a few minutes, sir.” Ianto’s voice almost came out calm and even, but there was a hitch in it that was impossible to miss.

Jack rounded the bench and reached out to take the items Ianto had collected to start the coffee out of his hands.

“I saw the CCTV footage.”

Ianto stiffened even more, avoiding his gaze, rubbing an agitated hand over the back of his neck.

“Show me,” he commanded softly, finally drawing Ianto’s confused gaze.

When he didn’t react right away, Jack reached out and slipped free two buttons on his shirt before Ianto batted his hands away.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

He had to take a moment to swallow down the anger, not wanting Ianto to think it was directed at him. “I saw what Owen did to you. Now show me.”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

Ianto started to turn away, but Jack caught his arm to stop the movement.

“Either you show me yourself, or so help me God, I will rip that shirt off. And it won’t be in the fun way.”

Ianto stared at him for a long, weighted moment as if searching for something. Whatever he found there, he gave a small sigh and then reached up to pull free his already loosened tie. He dropped it heedlessly on the nearby bench and then efficiently unfasted all of his buttons until the shirt hung free, but that was as far as he went. He loosely let his arms fall to his sides and stared balefully at him.

Jack stepped in and gently twisted Ianto around a little so his side was facing the strongest light and then brushed the shirt aside. A livid purple-blue bruise had already covered a good portion of his right ribcage. Jack’s breath caught as he reached out and skimmed his fingers along the edges where his skin was unmarred.

The anger he’d been rigidly holding down burst free in a single heated wave.

“Owen!” he bellowed before he could stop himself.

“Jack, no!” Ianto snatched his shirt closed, protectively holding it around himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” he shouted. He paused to take a breath when Ianto’s eyes widened. “This is _not_ okay, Ianto.”

He took Ianto’s arm in a firm hold, but gentled it enough to make sure he didn’t leave his own bruises on Ianto’s pale skin, and tugged him into motion. Surprisingly, Ianto didn’t resist. As they reached the base of the water tower, Owen was coming down the steps with a sour look on his face.

“What now?”

“With me,” Jack snapped, not pausing and not letting go of Ianto as he brushed past Owen. Ianto kept his gaze rigidly ahead, not looking at anyone as Jack led him past the staring girls and down to the autopsy bay. Owen came along behind them, huffing and muttering under his breath. 

“What’s got your pants in a bunch now?” Owen stopped at the bottom of the steps and belligerently crossed his arms.

Jack set an unyielding look on Ianto. “Shirt.”

Ianto stared back at him with a hint of defiance, before finally closing his eyes and letting go of where he’d been holding his shirt closed. When he went to shrug out of it, however, he froze as a grimace of pain contorted his features.

Jack crossed the space between them in three long strides, catching Ianto’s hands and lowering them.

“Here, let me,” he murmured.

Ianto was back to avoiding his gaze, but this time his blue eyes looked suspiciously bright as he blinked several times. Jack eased the shirt off his shoulders and arms. A gasp emanated from above them.

“Ianto! What happened?” Tosh asked, concern colouring her voice.

“Care to explain, Owen?” Jack asked casually as he carefully put Ianto’s shirt aside. It was horribly wrinkled, but he knew it was one of Ianto’s favourites.

Owen at least had the grace to look somewhat chagrined, but it was edged with indignation, which was only sending Jack’s internal temperature higher.

“We had a tussle over the plans to the bloody rift manipulator. So what? He _shot_ me!”  

“Looks to me like you deserved it,” Gwen muttered from next to Tosh.

Owen sent a glare over his shoulder.

“A _tussle_?” Jack repeated, low, angry menace in his voice. He went to take a step, but Ianto clamped a hand on his forearm. “He was already on the ground and you kicked him. Really got the boot in, right?”

“Owen,” Tosh uttered, sad disappointment in her voice.

“Alright, yes. I did. You want me to say sorry? If he had his way, neither of you would be here! I did what I had to.”

Tosh sucked in a sharp breath, then turned on her heel and hurried away. Gwen sent Owen one last disapproving look and then followed after her.

“Check his ribs. If they’re broken—” A weird, tight and sharp ache clamped around his chest momentarily, and he couldn’t get the rest of the words out. Getting hurt in this job was an unavoidable complication. They’d all gotten banged up in all kinds of ways. But hurting one another—and the fact it was Ianto was getting everything inside him even more tangled up than it’d already been.

“Just check him,” he finished, voice catching.

Ianto’s hand momentarily tightened where it still held his forearm, as if trying to comfort him, before he swiftly let go and shifted to sit on the table.

Owen came over, expression tight, and stayed silent the entire time he ran the scans. Jack stood nearby with his arms crossed, watching the two of them. When the doctor was done, he shifted awkwardly, something like regret finally edging into his features.

“One of his ribs is cracked. It’ll be sore for a few days. He’ll need to ice it periodically over the next forty-eight hours to keep the swelling down. I’d recommend restricted duties, no strenuous activity. I’ve got some painkillers—”

“No.” Ianto slid off the table and reached for his shirt. “No painkillers. I’ve had cracked ribs before. Its fine.”

A hint of frustration crossed Owen’s features, probably at Ianto’s dismissal of his medical advice.

“Whatever,” Owen clipped out. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

He turned his back on them and went to his computer, probably to enter the latest injuries—both his and Ianto’s—into their medical records.

Ianto slipped into his shirt with barely a wince this time, keeping his features stubbornly bland as he passed Jack without looking at him.

“Ianto, my office.”

Ianto paused on the bottom stair and gave an almost imperceptible nod before continuing up and disappearing from sight.

When he was gone, Owen spun and faced Jack with his arms crossed, back to being belligerent.

“Alright, let’s have it. Suspension? Or is my punishment to simply continue working like after the weevil fight cage?”

“He was trying to do the right thing,” he replied instead, keeping his voice carefully low. It was either that or yell, and he didn’t think he had the energy required for that right now. Not after everything else. “Torchwood Cardiff’s standing orders—”

“Don’t mess with the rift,” Owen interrupted dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. But in case you haven’t noticed, it all worked out fine in the end, didn’t it?”

“Did it?” he shot back, gratified at the hint of uncertainty that entered Owen’s dark gaze. “You were cruel, you know.”

Owen fidgeted, gaze darting away. “I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have kicked him when he was down.”

“That,” Jack conceded. “And what you said to him.”

Owen’s brow creased in confusion as he looked back at him. “What I said?”

“Because he was right.” Jack slid his hands into his pockets and strolled across the autopsy bay. “He is much more to me than just the tea boy.” 

Owen’s mouth fell open slightly, but he didn’t seem to know what to say. Jack didn’t care what he made of it, simply turned on his heel and strode quickly up the stairs. Tosh and Gwen were sitting on the couch, mugs of tea in hand, but didn’t say anything to him as he went into his office and quietly shut the door.

Ianto was sitting in the chair in front of his desk, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands. Jack glanced over his shoulder, but no one was in line of sight of his office windows, so he went over and perched on the desk in front of Ianto, and gently reached down to stroke a hand through his mussed hair. When he made contact, however, Ianto jerked away from him and straightened.

“I’m sorry. Sorry I shot him,” Ianto fumbled out. “I didn’t know what else to do—you were gone and I thought it was a trap and I didn’t know what was right anymore. We’re not supposed to open the rift, but you and Tosh—”

“Hey.” He set a calming hand on Ianto’s shoulder. “I’m not mad at you, it’s okay. You did the right thing, Ianto.”

Ianto dragged a hand over his face. “Nothing about that was right.”

His chest pinched and he had to glance away as recent memories cascaded over him. “No, it wasn’t.”

There was a long moment of silence between them while they avoided each other’s eyes. Finally, though, Ianto sighed, sounding tired.

“You wanted to stay, didn’t you?” There was a hint of something in Ianto’s voice that almost sounded like hurt.

Jack looked down at him and found a shadow of sadness in Ianto’s gaze.

“What makes you say that?” he asked carefully.

Ianto’s gaze dropped away. “Tosh. She told me about—about the real Captain Harkness. That you and he—”

Jack swallowed, the tightness in his chest getting worse, even though he couldn’t identify the source. “Ianto—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ianto shifted in the chair as though he wanted to escape. “It shouldn’t matter.”

His heart skipped as he watched a myriad of emotion cross Ianto’s face before he struggled to contain it.

“But what if it does?” Jack reached down and took Ianto’s hand, partly because he’d been wanting nothing more than to touch Ianto since he got back, but partly to make sure he didn’t leave. “What if you were right?”

Ianto stared up at him, perplexed but with a tiny spark of something warm in his gaze. “About what?”

Jack swallowed, asking himself if he was really going to do this. If he said the words, it would change everything. He didn’t know if it was the right thing to do or not. Logically, he knew it was all wrong. Ianto deserved something other, something better than him. He couldn’t give Ianto a normal relationship. He couldn’t do houses and pets and kids. The problem was, it _felt_ right all the way down to his soul. And he was too selfish to let Ianto go. Maybe one day he’d be strong enough to be a better man and walk away. But not now. Not after today. And not after Suzie. And not after the night they’d dealt with the Saviour and slept together for the first time. Not even after Lisa had almost killed them all. Ianto grounded him. Ianto was his calm when everything else was a maelstrom. Ianto was his fortress when the rest of the team became a battering ram without even knowing it. Ianto was his sanctuary when the rest of his life was a war.

He shifted from where he’d been perched on the edge of the desk to crouch in front of Ianto, who was now looking even more confused.

“Ianto, I didn’t want to stay in 1941,” he started slowly, trying to gather his thoughts that had fragmented into too many places today. “What happened with Captain Harkness, that wasn’t about anyone but him, and what I owed him.”

He glanced up to see if Ianto was following him. There was no judgement in Ianto’s gaze, just patience and openness, the same willingness to listen and understand that he always displayed.

“The last thing I wanted was to stay, for so many reasons,” he continued, tightening his hold on Ianto’s hand. “The captain asked me if I had anyone waiting for me at home, anyone I loved or someone who loved me in return and I told him no.”

Though he tried to hide it, Ianto’s breath hitched the slightest bit, but he pushed on.

“There hasn’t been anyone like that for me in a long, long time. I isolated myself on purpose. I’ve lost a lot of people I’ve loved in my life. I don’t want to rely on anyone. The life I live, it’s easier not to need anyone or anything.”

Ianto gave a single nod of understanding, blue eyes still steady on him.

“After he walked away, I started thinking about being stuck in 1941 again, and realised that I did need something.” He took a steadying breath, not quite able to meet Ianto’s earnest blue eyes any longer. “I realised that I needed you.”

Ianto went completely still, even though he hadn’t been moving all that much beforehand. He froze, as if he wasn’t even breathing. Maybe he wasn’t. Jack risked a look to see him gazing with wide eyes.

“Jack, I—” he uttered, but Jack surged up and caught his mouth in a gentle but firm kiss, cutting off the words, not wanting to hear whatever Ianto was going to say.

When he pulled back, he exhaled unevenly, the tightness in his chest finally loosening.

“I don’t need you to say anything back. That’s not what this about either. Do you understand?”

He didn’t think he’d explained it all that well—explained anything, really. But Ianto nodded, and there was complete understanding in his gaze. But that was the thing about Ianto; he understood him in a way no one else ever had, and maybe no one else ever would.

Jack got to his feet, still holding Ianto’s hand, and gently pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, you’re going to lay down in my bunk. You need to ice those ribs and rest.”

Ianto gave an eye-roll, but it didn’t have its usual bite behind it. “Jack, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I know, but we all went through hell today. And I’ve had cracked ribs before as well. I know how much it hurts.” 

“I’m not going down to your bunk." Though he was protesting, Ianto wasn’t resisting as Jack led him toward the hatch. "The others—”

“So you’d rather lay on the couch out in the hub with no shirt on?”

A fine flush of colour brushed over Ianto’s cheeks. “I don’t need to take my shirt off to ice my ribs.”

Jack lifted the hatch and indicated for him to go down the ladder. “Except I know that’s one of your favourite shirts and I’m sure you don’t want to ruin it with a damp cloth or melting ice.”

Ianto’s resulting frown told him that the younger man knew he’d been played, but they both knew his weakness and Jack definitely wasn’t above exploiting it for his own gain.

“Fine,” Ianto muttered, brushing by him to disappear down the rungs.

Jack gave a satisfied nod, then went out to the kitchenette and emptied a tray of ice into a clean dish towel. As he came back around the water tower, a rift alert sounded and he only just resisted the urge to kick the water tower in frustration. He jogged over to where Tosh was already checking her computers.

“What is it?” he asked without preamble.

“Non-organic. Probably some kind of junk. Came through only a few blocks from here,” she replied.

He gave a silent sigh of relief. If it was just alien junk, the others could handle it. “You two take Owen and go find it.”

“Owen?” Gwen repeated sceptically. “He’s injured.”

“And I think the fresh air will do him some good,” he told her with a practised grin. “I’ll be on comms if you run into any trouble.”

Tosh had already gathered her things and went to wait by the cog wheel door as Gwen drew out a reluctant Owen, muttering and griping the whole way. Jack turned his back on them and almost ran into Ianto coming out of his office door.

“What was the—”

“Just junk, probably.” He caught Ianto’s hand and led him back across to the hatch. “The others have gone to take care of it. You have a date with some ice.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Ianto muttered, waiting aside as Jack went down into the bunker first. As Ianto climbed down behind him, Jack toed off his boots and shrugged his suspenders down to hang at his sides, making himself a little more comfortable.

Ianto shot him a dubious look as he went over and sat on the edge of the bed and slowly removed his shirt.

“Lay back,” Jack quietly told him in the surrounding hush that seemed to have encompassed them.

Ianto reclined on the pillows, folding both hands behind his head.

Jack climbed onto the bed and straddled Ianto’s thighs, gently pressing the damp towel with the ice to his bruised side. Ianto hissed out a breath, flinching minutely before he settled. They stayed like that in silence staring at one another, Ianto gradually relaxing as the ice steadily numbed his side. After a while, Jack set the ice aside and then gently lowered, careful not to put any of his weight on Ianto, but pressed his cheek to the middle of Ianto’s chest to rest there. He felt drained. He just needed a quiet few minutes to get his equilibrium back before the next crisis. 

Ianto let out a sigh and threaded his fingers into Jack’s hair, his chin resting of top of his head. Jack closed his eyes, listening to the steady beat of Ianto’s heart beneath his ear, feeling the give and take of air flowing in and out of his lungs.

“I didn’t try hard enough, you know,” Ianto murmured.

He didn’t answer, simply tilted his head a little to let Ianto know he was listening.

“I could have stopped him from opening the rift. I’d already shot him. But then I froze. Because I wanted him to do it. I wanted him to open the rift to get you back so much I could barely even breathe.”

The words came out ragged like a confession of guilt. Jack turned his head inward and kissed Ianto’s chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I could have—”

He brought his head up so he could see Ianto’s face and read the anguish and guilt in his blue eyes. “Could you have killed him?”

Ianto stared at him for a long moment before mutely shaking his head.

“Then there wasn’t anything else you could have done. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. It happened. We move forward.”

Always moving forward and never stopping. That was half of his problem. Sometimes, he found moments in time he wanted to stay in forever. Except they flitted away from him like butterflies on the wind.

“I’m glad we got you back,” Ianto whispered, reaching up to cup his face.

“I would have found my way back, one way or another.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Ianto the truth, to confess he couldn’t die. Ianto was smart, and Jack knew he already had a theory about him being a time traveller of some kind. But the truth was so much more brutal. A parade of images marched across his mind’s eye—other lovers and friends who’d found out the truth of his immortality and never looked at him the same way again.

No. He couldn’t tell Ianto, because he didn’t want to see Ianto’s blue eyes cloud over with disgust or fear or jealousy.

Instead, he leaned in and gently kissed Ianto on the mouth, then over his jaw and down his neck until he settled back against Ianto’s chest to listen to his heart beating once again. Yes, he would have found his way back to Ianto Jones one way or another, even if it’d taken him over sixty years.

He knew then, with a strange mixture of dread and thrill coursing through him, that one day when the Doctor finally turned up and he went with him to get his answers—or better yet, have the Doctor fix him, make him mortal once again—there would only be one place he would want to go after, despite the temptation of all of time and space at his fingertips.

One place where everything made sense. One place that brought him closer to the feeling of _home_ than he’d felt since the Doctor had taken the TARDIS and left him behind. One place he’d choose to be over everywhere and anywhere else in the universe. It’d taken being ripped out of time yet again for him to see it. This time, however, he’d gotten his second chance. Now he just had to work out what he was going to do with it. What he was going to do with Ianto Jones, the man who was so close to capturing his elusive heart, and didn’t have a clue.


End file.
